THE RIPEST FRUIT

My hands are deep
in a well, in the black
where nothing and all
exists.

Where light cradles
birth, and the new
consists of the smell
of morning dew.

Charge into the light
and be, from nothingness,
the inner holiness,
hands in a frenzied joy,
to express.

where time is no law,
held in no pursuit,
where intuition picks
the ripest fruit.